


i'll build a fire (you fetch the water)

by figure8



Category: EXO (Band), K-pop
Genre: 50's, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, it's a we young mv au okay this is just me writing 1.5k about we young, it's bittersweet i think but mainly just sweet, the world is shit but they love each other a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-10
Packaged: 2019-09-15 12:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16933557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/figure8/pseuds/figure8
Summary: "This is my roommate, Chanyeol Park," Sehun says.





	i'll build a fire (you fetch the water)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fullsoleilhyuck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullsoleilhyuck/gifts).



> dio kept yelling "HUSBANDS!!!" at me every time we watched the we young mv WHAT was i supposed to do 
> 
> title from sons and daughters by allman brown

_And all those evenings_   
_Out in the garden, red, red wine_   
_These quiet hours turning to years_   


The living room is quiet and semi-dark when Sehun unlocks the front door, but there’s a faint sweet smell in the air coming from the kitchen, and he can hear the muffled sound of the radio all the way from the balcony. He doesn’t switch on the light, because he can still see and electricity isn’t cheap; toes off his shoes hastily before trotting to the kitchen, excited. On the tiny round table, a tray of chocolate muffins is cooling down. They look fluffy, and up close, the scent is actually _magical,_ so heady Sehun almost grabs one to bite into it, even though he knows that’s a terrible idea.

He hears the sliding door open, then the mosquito net, then the characteristic _slam_ they make when one closes them. “Hey,” Chanyeol’s voice calls, “Hunnie, is that you?”

“In the kitchen!” Sehun replies. It only takes a few seconds for Chanyeol to appear.

He didn’t have work today, so he’s wearing maroon corduroy pants and no shirt. He must have spent some time on the balcony, because it’s still really warm outside, and there’s a thin layer of sweat on Chanyeol’s skin, glistening. Sehun goes to rest his head against his shoulder. Chanyeol smiles, presses his cheek to Sehun’s hair.

“Hey, doll.”

“Long day,” Sehun mumbles. Chanyeol’s hand comes up to gently pet his upper back. “Missed you.”

“You always say that,” Chanyeol chuckles. “But you see me every day.”

 _I still miss you,_ Sehun wants to retort, but it sounds petulant, so he doesn’t. It’s been harsh, today, is all. The guys at the cafe keep pestering him about his lack of girlfriend, lately. _A handsome guy like you,_ Matthew had said. Sehun’s knuckles had turned white around the back of the chair in front of him as he’d stuttered some incoherent story about focusing on his acting for now.

The thing is, Sehun doesn’t care about what other people think. Sehun’s parents know, have known for years, since they found him kissing the preacher’s son at age fifteen, hidden behind a tree. Sehun is twenty-five, now. He’s had the time to mourn.

It’s Chanyeol that cares. Chanyeol cares _so much,_ about many things. Most of all, Chanyeol seems to care about Sehun, which to this day still makes little to no sense, because while Sehun likes to think he’s special, most of the time it doesn’t really feel like he is. And Chanyeol, Chanyeol is so good, so talented, so _loving,_ Chanyeol deserves the very best. Chanyeol deserves freedom, the kind of freedom he craves, not having to chain himself down with words. Every time Sehun says _this is my roommate, Chanyeol Park,_ he can see the thin strained line of Chanyeol’s mouth. He remembers that one time one of Chanyeol’s friends had laughed, surprised at the fact they were still living together after five years. How Chanyeol’s hands had trembled. How Chanyeol had almost slipped.

 _This is my best friend,_ is how Chanyeol usually introduces Sehun. Sehun’s heart twists, turns, dances. When he was nineteen, a beautiful boy with the brightest smile asked him for a cigarette right outside of a bar. Chanyeol already had him weak, then, before he even knew his name. Sehun had pretended to look for a pack in his pocket even though he didn’t smoke, just so the boy would stay with him for a little longer. Chanyeol still likes to laugh about it.

They go to the Black Cat, sometimes. Not often, because Sehun still has dreams, still has aspirations that don’t go well with arrest records. But often enough to know what Chanyeol looks like liberated, for a few minutes at least, when he dances, when they dance. They dance at home, too. Put on the phonograph, swing in the middle of the living room, Chanyeol’s big hands on Sehun’s hips. It’s different at the bar, surrounded by other people just like them. Chanyeol goes out, sometimes, to sing _God Save Us Nelly Queens_ in the street, out in the open, provocative, furious. Sehun’s stomach ties itself into knots, even though the police don’t seem to care, not these days.

 

Chanyeol makes dinner, because Sehun can cook, kinda, learned to when he was kicked out of his childhood home, but still can’t manage anything actually elaborate. It’s just pasta tonight, spaghetti and tomato sauce, but Sehun is grateful when the steaming plate is placed in front of him. Chanyeol grins so big it eats half his face.

“This is good,” Sehun says around a mouthful of food, and Chanyeol swings his chair back a little, smirks cockily.

“Tell me about your day,” he demands, so Sehun does. He tells him about the 70 strawberry milkshakes he had to make, and how one of the girls broke two glasses in the span of seven minutes. He tells him about this casting call he saw a poster for while walking back home. “I’ll drive you,” Chanyeol nods, not even questioning it, knowing already that Sehun wants to go. Chanyeol never points out that in six years, he’s only ever seen Sehun in two plays, both of them minor roles, too.

“It’s a musical,” Sehun says. “I thought, maybe—”

“Sure, love,” Chanyeol smiles. “Tell me which song you need, I'll grab my guitar.”

That’s how dinner ends, with Chanyeol sitting on the arm of their ratty couch, playing, while Sehun sings softly. After that they eat the muffins Chanyeol baked earlier as dessert, and Sehun makes tea for himself, and pours a glass of milk for Chanyeol.

 

There are two bedrooms in the apartment. There’s a bed in each of them, but Sehun only ever sleeps in “his” when Chanyeol’s family visits. The rest of the time, that room is an office, kind of, and a storage space. All of Chanyeol’s books from college, their winter coats, some boxes Sehun brought with him when he moved in and never unpacked; it’s all there. Chanyeol doesn’t read often, lately. No time, no energy. Not for the sort of books he has hidden away in that room, anyway. He still reads novels, a few pages per night, the lamp on his nightstand on, glasses resting on his nose, while he waits for Sehun to come to bed. He’s at his most beautiful like that, Sehun thinks. When Sehun crawls under the covers, Chanyeol puts down his book. Sehun moves closer, his hand immediately going to the buttons of Chanyeol’s pajama top, and Chanyeol giggles, kisses him on the nose.

“Baby, I have to wake up early tomorrow.” After a dazed beat, he adds, “And so do you.”

Sehun buries his face in the crook of his neck. “Want you,” he whines. “It’s not that late.”

Chanyeol has never been good at telling him no.

 

Of the first time they slept together, he remembers Chanyeol’s eyes, most of all. His gaze, intense, heavy. His pupils blown, dark black rings, his eyelashes fluttering. He remembers how Chanyeol hadn’t stopped staring, not a second, as he moved inside Sehun. Mouths meeting, shared breaths, hands holding hands. Their fingers interlinked, on the mattress, Chanyeol going _oh_ and _Sehun_ and _please._ Words like honey, words like liquid amber, _I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted—_

He knows Chanyeol’s body now, knows him in ways that words do not hold power against. Knows him inside out, knows him blind, by taste, by touch, by sound. Like the small moans that trickle from Chanyeol’s lips when Sehun takes him in his mouth, like the way his fingers twist in Sehun’s hair.

“You’re so,” Chanyeol gasps, “You’re _so—_ ”

Sehun hums around his cock, content. Chanyeol’s other hand comes to cradle his jaw, tender, reverent. When he slithers back up Chanyeol’s body, when they kiss and Chanyeol tastes himself on Sehun’s tongue, when Sehun sinks down onto him and starts moving, fluid, wanting; it is a dance here too.

 _Lover,_ Chanyeol whispers, _lover, lover, husband._

 

“Marry me,” Chanyeol says on the day of their fourth anniversary. Sehun laughs, head thrown back, full blown. “Sehunnie, marry me.”

“You’re crazy,” Sehun pushes him softly.

Chanyeol takes his hand. Holds tight. “Pretend we could.”

Sehun stills, then. Squeezes back. “Okay. I’m pretending.”

“I’ll get you a ring. If I get you a ring, Sehun, will you—”

He stumbles on his own words, doesn’t finish the sentence, blushing. Sehun is many things, but cruel isn’t one of them. They’re inside their home, sheltered, and he can do this. He can kiss Chanyeol, he can say _yes, I will_ against his mouth.

 

He wears the ring on a chain, under his shirts. Sometimes when they do the dishes together, Sehun washing and Chanyeol drying, Chanyeol says _husband,_ teasing, to get his attention. Sometimes when Sehun breaks down after too many fruitless auditions, sobs shaking his lean frame, Chanyeol says _husband,_ loving, to bring him back home.

  


**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this!! come say hi on twitter (@yifanapologist) uwu


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